Low Tide

( Thoughts )

God, he was drunk. Three sheets to the fucking wind. John recognized it but did nothing to prevent himself from becoming quite sloppy over a cluster of shot glasses and a pile of discarded lime wedges.

They designed these places for loners, he thought, his chin resting sleepily on his palm. The tiny tables had room enough for one chair, two if gentlemen didn't mind rubbing knees, which most of them did, for fear of accidentally rubbing something else. He supposed they all looked like starved, neglected dogs, too, a few dodgy enough to paw the buttocks of waitresses who wore top hats and glittery bow ties, and who shook their breasts like maracas above the cocktail trays. At least, those waitresses who weren't in drag.

( Strange Art )